When it comes to my dad and Creedence Clearwater Revival, there’s an amazing irony at play. For a band that never once released a love song, Creedence’s fifth studio album, Cosmo’s Factory, provided the soundtrack to my father’s earliest romantic escapades.

Last week, I visited my dad at his condo and made a point of unveiling my own copy of the Creedence record, which was fairly beat up from years spent buried in a Brooklyn basement. But its condition didn’t stop my dad’s eyes from widening beneath his glasses as he admired the cover art — scruffy young men posing casually in their Bay Area rehearsal space.

“Throw it on,” he said, gesturing across the room to a turntable that hadn’t been played much since my parents’ divorce. Back then, after we’d sold the house, Dad rented an apartment across town and the two of us spent summer nights eating pizza and playing Zeppelin records in the living room.

As I asked him questions about Cosmo’s Factory, the record skipped in the background, and, for the first time, I was able to clearly picture this 67-year-old man as a teenager doing teenager things: hitchhiking to the record store in his small suburban town, crushing on classmates in steamy basements, dancing close, making out, getting his heart broken.

It reminded me of my own queasy attempts at romance. Asking a girl to date me in the 5th grade, hugging her behind a tree at recess, burning her a CD, inviting her over and watching my mother gaze suspiciously at the gold hoops dangling from her 11-year-old ears, as if to say, “This one’s trouble.”

Cosmo’s Factory by Creedence was the first album you ever bought?

Yes. I bought this record for my girlfriend in 8th grade. And I didn’t want my parents to know that I was buying a gift for a girl, so I hid it up in the attic over the garage. Which is not a good place to store a record.

I didn’t know there was an attic over Grandma and Grandpa’s garage, how did you get up there?

I had a little step ladder that I could pull from the back of the garage, and then I hoisted myself up onto the rafters and hid the record. I think her birthday was October 3rd, and it was September, so it baked up there for quite a while.

How did you land on Cosmo’s Factory?

I’d heard the songs on the radio, so I knew it’d be a good album.

Where’d you buy it?

We had one record store in town — Randolph Records, or something — right on Main Street. Pretty sure I hitchhiked there, everyone did that back then.

What was your girlfriend’s name?

Her name was Nancy Seifert. I did eventually get the record to her, and I had it all wrapped, in birthday wrap.

That’s romantic for a 14-year-old.

I thought so. We were a hot ticket.

How did you get the record to her?

I don’t remember, but I actually got to listen to it at her house. Her parents kinda liked me.

Sounds like they were more open-minded than Grandma and Grandpa.

Her older sister had already broken down all the barriers, whereas I was the oldest in my family; my parents weren’t welcoming of girlfriends in 8th grade.

Really?

Yeah, I hid my relationship. But we used to have dance parties at people’s houses, in their basements, a lot of making out, a lot of grinding going on.

Was grinding a thing back then?

We didn’t call it grinding, but it was definitely a thing.

Dry humping.

Hahaha…yeah.

Would you dance to Creedence?

Not really. We would listen to their music, but we used to dance to Motown. Elvis’s “Suspicious Minds” was a big one; also the Beatles’ “Come Together,” and “Something.”

Did you ever host one of these dance parties?

No, but at least my parents let me go. Nancy had one at her house, and I remember she and I were in the laundry room making out and her father came walking in…he wasn’t happy.

That tracks.

He was just glad we had our clothes on. He’d already come downstairs and was looking for his daughter, and somebody was like, “I think she went outside to get a breath of fresh air” and he was like, “Yeah, okay…” Then he burst into the back room. We weren’t alone in there, either; other people were on the floor.

Wow, an 8th grade orgy…

It was an 8th grade make-out party. Dancing and making out, you ate a little bit, and no alcohol, just good clean fun.

At that age you don’t really need any extra stimulants.

There were enough pheromones in the air. Now that I think of it, maybe we did dance to Creedence — maybe “Who’ll Stop The Rain.”

How long did you and Nancy date?

Oh boy. Three months? Six months?

Do remember who broke up with who?

I don’t. But I don’t remember it being dramatic. She ended up marrying one of my best friends from high school though, and they’re still married.

Who did you date after Nancy?

It was Karen McSweeney first, then Nancy, and they were best friends — that was awkward — and then in 9th grade I went to the high school and that’s when I met Ginger. Ginger Wells. We dated until I graduated.

Ginger Wells sounds like a leading lady’s name from old-school Hollywood. Was she a big deal at school?

No, she wasn’t a cheerleader or anything.

What did you like about her?

We just hit it off. Sunday nights, I used to go over to her house and we’d watch gangster movies on TV and make out. We would sit in the living room where the TV was, and her mom would be out in the family room chain-smoking Virginia Slims — she would smoke about half of them, put them out, and line them up in her ashtray, it was all very organized. Her dad didn’t smoke, and he’d sit there reading the newspaper, the whole room in a blue haze.

You were together all of high school?

She dumped me right before the senior prom.

Damn, that’s cold. So you went alone?

No, come on. I got a date. I went with my brother’s ex-girlfriend.

That’s nuts.

It was nuts. My mother was especially confused, because we came over to the house for corsages and pictures and all that, and she’s like, “Isn’t that the woman who was here last year with your brother?”

Was Uncle Scott pissed?

No, he wasn’t pissed. I didn’t ask him, but no. I met her at a party, and we got to talking about my broken heart and she said, “Well, I’ll go with ya!” And I was like, “Alright, sounds like fun.”

So it wasn’t serious.

No, no. I went to college a couple months later and was unattached, but I came home for Thanksgiving and hooked back up with Ginger. Second semester of freshman year I met Sheryl and I was with her all the rest of college, then we got married.

A long-term man.

I’m a monogamous man, I don’t like the playing-the-field thing, it just confuses my head.

I feel like I’ve always had a somewhat similar outlook on dating.

Yeah? But you’re 31 now, and you’re not married. So you missed the 23-year-old wedding.

Times have changed.

Thanks god, right? Yet marriage still ends up in divorce half the time. It’s just not how we’re hardwired.

Some people like to do it, though. Maybe it’s just folks with high pain tolerances.

Hahaha.

And patience.

Lots of patience.

You can check out more Firsts here, and reach out with your own album stories to be featured on The Jam Jar!

(Also: a shout out to Auntie Karen for supplying the vintage photos!)

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I’d spent most of my morning at a record shop down the block, quietly perusing genres, chomping at the bit, anticipating whatever heady origin story the bearded man slumped behind the desk would reveal once we spoke.

But before I could shoot my shot and ask the dude in Elton-esque tortoiseshell shades my brilliant questions, a pot-bellied vinyl-head stumbled in like Sisyphus, his chin tucked and his arms shaking under a collection of used records balanced on the back of his bent neck. He was clearly trying to sell his stuff, make a buck, and, alas, I didn’t want to get in the way. So I paid for a copy of Cindy Lee’s six-sided masterpiece Diamond Jubilee, and left.

Out on the spit-stained sidewalk, clutching my tote, I still craved a chat for this very blog. That’s when I remembered another record store owner — a kind soul named Nigel, and his adorable cat, Emerson — who I’d once interviewed for a story last summer.

I wandered on through Brooklyn’s swampy mid-afternoon heat, and by the time I blew through the door of Octopus Records, my eyes stung with sweat. The store’s air conditioning hit my skin like a hug from Mr. Freeze. Nigel was perched behind the counter, gently sliding a Radiohead record from its sleeve and placing it on a sleek state-of-the-art turntable.

His fingers were covered in turquoise rings, my notepad was stuck to my right ass cheek, and thus our conversation began.

Please enjoy.

What was the first record you bought for yourself?

Man, I think I was looking for a Beatles record, and all they had was Seals and Crofts — which is what my dad was into — and I got Sudan Village. It was either that, or Paul McCartney's Tug of War.

The one with the Stevie Wonder collabs?

Yeah, from the early 80s. Stevie sings on “Ebony & Ivory” and another track on there. But it’s kind of a cheesier era for Paul, not that he doesn’t have a lot of cheesy stuff.

Where’d you pick those records up?

I definitely got Tug of War at the record store in Paradise Valley Mall in Phoenix, which they just tore down a couple years ago to build an apartment complex.

How old were you when you bought Tug of War?

I was six. Tug of War came out in ‘82, and two years later we were getting Van Halen’s 1984 as the record store dude was putting it away on the shelf.

My brother was almost five years older than me and he got into KISS and Mötley Crüe pretty quickly. Ozzy — all that.

RIP.

Oh, I forgot. The library near us in Phoenix had records you could check out and I remember going with my mom to pick up a Scott Joplin record and KISS’s Rock And Roll Over.

What a combo…

Yeah, my dad was playing some “Maple Leaf Rag” or something. It’s so funny what you move towards when you’re a kid.

Did you play piano at all?

No, I was a drummer. I was beating on stuff before I knew what rhythm was. By the time I put together a full kit, I was a senior in high school, into prog and metal.

Did you ever play that kind of music for a crowd?

My sophomore year in high school, my friends and I wanted to play “Enter Sandman” in the talent show. There was no rule saying the whole band had to be from our school, so I asked my brother and his friend, Rich, and their band — “Pelvic Meatloaf” — to play with us.

Rich had his hair up in a rainbow mohawk and got the kids all riled up, rushing toward the stage, and 30 seconds later, before the first verse even started, the curtains closed. The school said Rich instigated a riot or whatever. We were disqualified.

That’s epic. Did those first McCartney/Seals & Crofts records have any impact on your personal music evolution?

That early stuff didn’t really have anything to do with what I got into, because I really got into Iron Maiden — like heavily.

And through that Metallica, Megadeth, Pantera, Slayer, then Sepultura and Tool in college, but also softer stuff like The Cranberries and 311 and other bands I probably wouldn’t want to admit to these days…

Like what?

I had a girlfriend who was listening to Dave Matthews…it was the 90s.

But metal sounds like it was your main influence?

Yeah, it was the album art of Iron Maiden, and the mystery and the Satanism of that shit. Like when Mötley Crüe’s “Shout At The Devil” came out, with the glossy pentagram, I was just like, '“Wow, these guys are pretty dark.” Even though the music was rarely as heavy as the imagery.

Did your parents collect records?

Here and there. I come from a pretty musical family, but in terms of pop, we only had like two Beatles albums. My dad listened to a lot of classical, a little bit of jazz, and some world music — you know who Kitka are? They sing traditional Eastern European music. It’s melodic and folky with crazy harmonies.

When did you start collecting?

As a kid, I went through the evolution of records and tapes, then CDs. But when I moved to LA in my 20s, these dudes — they were pretty prototypical hipsters, from Baltimore — had an Elliot Smith record and a Belle & Sebastian record. I couldn’t believe they were still making vinyl.

That must have been right before vinyl came back into the mainstream?

Exactly. Early 2000s. Amoeba actually opened three months after I moved to LA, in Silver Lake, and it was 15 minutes up the road.

Did you go to Amoeba a lot?

All the time. I got sucked into the emporium — they had everything, every genre I was into back then, especially electronica; and they had a whole jazz room.

I loved the tactility of it. It reminded me of being a kid and, like, staring at the album art for hours trying to figure out whatever the band meant in the liner notes, and who they were referring to.

And you still have those early records in your collection?

I still have them all, yeah, even my original copy of Tug of War.

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Symphony Music appeared empty when we first arrived. Just an open door to a sparse industrial kitchen, one crate of records, and a few reggae posters taped up in the window. Peering in, I spotted a separate room in the back, and was willing up the courage to explore when we heard a woman’s voice float up through the sidewalk.

“Down here!” it said.

Rams and I looked down at our feet — “Uh…hello?”

“I’m down here!”

To the left of the storefront was an open hatch. In unison, we examined the set of worn stone stairs leading down into the unknown. We were here because Rams had gotten a tip from a fellow DJ that this “under-the-radar” spot was the real deal. We were eager to find out.

So, together, we shirked our unease and followed the voice, limboing shakily down the steps into a dust-covered basement filled with records — stacks and bins and shelves choc’ full of vintage vinyl.

Yet, within this underground lair, the most notable discovery was the warm presence of longtime proprietor and overseer, Ruta D.

Perched on an old amp, quietly cataloguing a small pile of records, Ruta stood when we descended, reaching out to shake our hands. In a relaxed tone, she began describing the space’s unique organizational system, pointing out vintage reggae and soca (“soul of calypso) labels, disco pressings, hip-hop singles, 12-inch dance records, boxed 45s, and a bottom shelf filled with movie scores and obscure albums with Hebrew and Arabic song titles.

“Don’t flip the records too hard,” she warned, scooting her amp-chair deeper into the chaos. “Because of the dust.”

Ruta welcomed us to stay as long as we’d like, dig around, and, to my excitement, ask her questions about her shop. Symphony Music is the only remaining record store in Weeksville, a historic working-class neighborhood at the eastern-most part of Crown Heights, Brooklyn that was originally founded by a freed African-American dockworker named James Weeks 11 years after slavery was abolished in New York State.

While talking with Ruta — and carefully flipping through her dense personal collection — I gained a better understanding of a local music scene that once thrived on Utica Avenue, where influential reggae, dance and disco labels like Delroy and Flavia Francis’s Park Heights (expect a future article on this) reigned supreme. But these iconic hubs have sadly been lost to time, due to a lack of historical records, and a tumultuous social and economic landscape.

Still, despite the difficulty of running a profitable store in Weeksville, especially over a 25-year span, while facing the unpredictable ups and downs of vinyl sales, Ruta remains gentle, kind, and curious. She showed us a level of hospitality totally unexpected from a stranger in a city this big.

Rams and I left Ruta’s store with a fat stack of records, but also with bellies full of soup. That’s right — we devoured steaming bowls of Ruta’s home-cooked 18-bean vegan soup while chatting with her charming high-octane granddaughter about “Goosebumps” movies and the invention of cotton-candy. Before we parted ways, the face-painted seven-year-old demonstrated how to properly play a record on the turntable in the corner. Which is to say, Ruta’s store is special. Go there to buy records, but stick around for a while and eat some soup.

Anyway, without further ado: my chat with Ruta D! (and interjections from Rams)

This basement is a vibe.

When customers are here, I usually just leave them be.

One time I had customers down here who stayed and got comfortable. But it was getting late, it was getting dark. I forgot they were down here, I almost closed the door on them!

What moved you to begin collecting records in the first place?

It was my husband. He had a record store around the corner from Moodie’s — a major Bronx shop for Reggae. And he was a super for a building, and anyone moving out would just give him records!

[Rams: Hey, do you mind if I sit on one of these paint cans? Ruta: YES, please make yourselves comfortable]

Is your whole collection down here, or do also you have records at home?

(laughter) My husband is the real hoarder.

How bad is it?

He once said to me, “All you need is to have a path” — it’s insane!

How do you decide which records to keep?

It all depends, for me, about the rarity of the record. If it's common, if I have three or four of something,I'm not really trying to hold onto them. If it's not rare rare then there are too many records right about now to be holding on to, you know?

What’s the rarest record you currently have for sale?

I found a record through gifting — a little 45 that ended up being worth $1,500. If anybody gives me a reasonable offer, I’ll sell it.

[Note: Ruta also has a record listed on Discogs for $2,000, featuring “K.O.B.E” by the late Kobe Bryant]

So how has this shop changed over the years?

It used to be a full-on record shop, the whole upstairs. And then as time passed, we got rocked by the conversion to the CD — the record kind of went dead.

Eventually, I ended up opening my Discogs page and put my records online, and everything came down here.

Upstairs turned into kind of a juicery and eatery, but I’m not trying to do any full-on meat — no oxtail, ya know?

And then records blew up again.

And then records blew up again.

Now the younger kids are very much into the records. But it can be overwhelming to start buying records. I try to tell them to look for better quality jackets, and quality pressings, so if they want to, in their lifetimes, they can resell.

You can’t keep everything.

[Rams: Just found a David Bowie “Station to Station” record with a random cover. Me: Oh, shit!]

Can you tell me about the first record you ever bought?

Back in the day, there was a record store called Park Heights, which had its own label. Mostly reggae artists. And that’s where I bought my first 45. I’m thinking it was “Reunited,” but I’m not sure.

It was something catchy, you could sing to it.

Was Park Heights in the neighborhood?

Yes! The record shop was two blocks up. Symphony Music has been here since 2000, but this was when I was young young. I think I was in high school.

I remember my player was one of those little toy players, and every time I played it, the records skipped.

Do you ever come across Park Heights records in the wild?

Well I'm saving. I still have two, and they're really up there in price. If I were to sell them, I would have to be really desperate.

What do you see for the future of your store?

I'm trying to get people to do listening parties, you know, if you live in the community, you invite a few friends over, you charge them a little entry fee and have a little vibe.

But I don’t have that type of community out here. The younger kids used to come for open-mic, and they were decent kids. But the space is so tiny, and they go all over the city to do their art.

I’m just waiting for them to return.

If you want a memorable experience, go visit Ruta at her shop at 791-B Crown Street, Brooklyn NY 11213. Or check out her curated selection of records on Discogs!

Also: my friend Rams Montero is a vinyl DJ and singer-songwriter — check out his Instagram for upcoming gigs, and his original music on Spotify (“Push Me Away” is a timeless jam)!

AND AS ALWAYS, THANKS FOR READING.

STAY TUNED FOR A NEW “SONGS FROM THE SHELF” MIX OF MUSIC GATHERED FROM MY TIME AT SYMPHONY MUSIC.

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Upon entering Superior Elevation Records, I wasn’t totally prepared for the coiffed putto halfway through his first cig. It was a strangely familiar face, one that struck a power chord in my espresso-fueled skull — a riotous cacophony that sounded a hell of a lot like Van Halen:

Paaaanamuh!

Paaaanamuh-uh!

Van Halen’s sixth studio album, “1984,” — home to “Jump!”, “Hot for Teacher” and, of course, “Panama,” — has been floating around my brain goo ever since I was a little guy, bumping the CD on a boombox in the unfinished side of the family basement — smack dab between the boiler and my dad’s power saw.

I was well under five feet tall, standing in socks on the cool cement floor, taking in the band’s seismic riffs, raunchy background chatter (“fuck, man!”), and insane double bass drum. Burnt out from head-banging, I’d eventually catch my breath and study the glossy photorealistic boy on the cover. I related to the blonde locks, but also his posture, which seemed both curious and naive.

I stared at his birdlike angel wing and the cigarette burning in his chubby little hand. It made me crave something that I couldn’t name — probably freedom.

FUN FACT: when the album dropped, the UK used a sticker to censor the cover art, veiling the cigarettes.

While I continued to examine the front of this LP on a rainy Wednesday afternoon (somehow, at 30, I’m still in awe), I noticed my head bobbing up and down, then swaying effortlessly from side to side. The sound of a killer dance track, followed by some serious 70s soul, filled the store.

Positioned near the long window in the back, floating between the register and a casual DJ set up, Tom Noble — owner of Superior Elevation — was logging boxes of vinyl and spinning honey-smooth records that made me grateful Van Halen was nowhere near the decks. (Sorry, tastes change…)

Slogging my heap of picks to the register, I ended up introducing myself to Tom and asking him about the first record he ever bought.

Folks, you’ll never guess what he said…

What was the first record you ever bought?

The Van Halen “Jump!” picture sleeve. In 1984. I got it from a shopping mall that had, like, a 45 impulse-buy section.

I got money to buy it from my parents, because they had an art gallery in the mall. And I was just like, “Oh, a baby smoking a cigarette on the cover? I need it.”

How’d you first see it?

On MTV or something — yeah, Van Halen was still pretty new to me at that time.

Where was this mall?

The Prospect Mall in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I don’t think it’s there anymore…

Did your family have a record collection at home?

They had like 200 records. And it was good stuff — hippie stuff. But also “A Love Supreme” by Coltrane. Their copy would probably be worth $400 nowadays…

I remember all the covers, like “Hot Rats” by Frank Zappa, and some soul stuff.

Were you shaking things up by buying a Van Halen record?

No. My dad had a flying V.

I guess we had hip parents to a certain degree.

And, actually, I had gotten one record a few years before that, but I didn't buy it myself.

What was it?

“She’s So Cold” by The Rolling Stones. It was a B-side hit that wasn’t really a hit. It was a single on their “Emotional Rescue” record, which is actually sick.

It’s a catchy throwback rock n’ roll song, but the only reason I wanted it was because they sang, “she’s so cold like an ice cream cone.”

Because I was a fucking baby.

How old were you?

I don’t know, like 3 and a half.

Oh, so like an actual baby.

I was like, “I want the ice cream cone song,” and my mom picked it up from the store. That was the trajectory…

Wait, so then you were only about 6 years old when you bought Van Halen?

Yeah, just about 6.

Did you immediately start buying more records, or did it take a while after “Jump!”?

At that point, I was trying to sell my parents’ Amethyst for quarters so I could play “Dragon Slayer” in the mall — we weren’t buying anything much in those days. I was 6!

AFTERTHOUGHTS…

According to a friend of mine who spins records around groovy Brooklyn crowds, Tom Noble “is kind of a legend in the community.”

Tom’s been at the helm of Superior Elevation for a decade and counting, racking the shelves with vintage records that span all genres — soul, disco, house, hip-hop, jazz, funk, rock n’ roll (“fuck, man!”). He’s more than fluent in the art of vinyl treasure hunting, churning up rare gems and personal favs, and recycling them into our ears.

As a DJ who released his own sweet-and-sultry disco record with local dance label Razor-N-Tape in 2024, it’s no surprise Superior Elevation also runs its own DJ School (they recently replaced the store’s cool old horseshoe couch with a full-on studio — “the cube”), offering classes taught by other local legends.

All in all, there’s something warm and calming about Tom’s store. Once inside, my restless over-caffeinated work-day brain dissolved into the stacks, drifting to and from the turntable (there are two) to drop the needle and experience the surprising swell of a song I’ve never heard.

If you’re in town, head over to 616 Grand Street in Williamsburg — go see for yourself.

For real, Tom’s record, “House of Spirits,” is a romp — I promise, it’ll get those hips a-shaking.

(Especially this song, which does in fact take me there.)

— AND BEFORE YOU GO —

Ladies and gentleman: “JUMP!”

— WARNING: Video might induce labor —

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